Reflections
by BenjaminWilliam
Summary: Faberry / Accidents happen; this accident might just change Quinn Fabray's life for the better.
1. Chapter 1

In response to the cacophony of beeps and hums emanating from a variety of complex machines, the teenager opened one bleary eye. This was closely followed by a second, allowing the cramped box room to swim in and out of focus. It was shrouded in darkness; a bright line to his right betrayed his initial thought that it was night. The curtains were drawn and the sun was trying, not unsuccessfully, to worm its way under the thick fabric. As his vision became steadily less blurry over the—what was it? Seconds? Minutes? Hours?—he had been conscious, the young man found himself slowly regaining control of his faculties.

This was a hospital room, he so swiftly deducted; there was evidence of that everywhere. From the metal monstrosities that had woken him up to the lurid lilac colour lazily splashed across the walls. The blankets he was cocooned in were of an even more hideous shade and he briefly allowed himself to wonder what on earth had possessed the decorator of his prison. From there, he realised that he had much more pressing things to wonder about: why was he here, for example? Also, where was everyone? He couldn't imagine that he was so unpopular that not a single person had arrived to wish him well; a speedy recovery, perhaps. Having said that, he couldn't imagine much at all. He didn't know exactly who it was that he expected to greet him; he didn't even know exactly who it was that lay in this bed. He tried to cast his mind back as far as he could but soon found that his line seemed to bounce to a halt on an invisible wall somewhere prior to his waking up. He envisioned a mirror before his eyes but every image that appeared there was hazy at best, changing so often that the teenager didn't know what to believe.

His eyes continued to scan the room in a futile search for clues but he soon gave up. He would just have to hope that someone would come and put him out of his misery soon. The lack of answers was driving him insane and so, in order to regain some semblance of control, he began to mentally recite a list of facts he knew about himself.

1. He was male.

2. He seemed slight of build, although that may have been an illusion under a blanket that felt as though it had been recycled from an iron curtain.

3. His hair was blonde, and currently straggling down in waves past his shoulders—a sure sign that it needed cut and perhaps also an indication of how long he had been here?

Instantly, the young man felt disheartened. Three things; that was all he could remember about himself. They weren't even true memories but observation, a skill that he was currently glad had remained intact. He considered untangling himself from the number of wires attached to him although he wasn't entirely sure how. Surely it couldn't be that difficult to unhook a heart monitor? He was immediately put off of the idea at the thought of the long, shrill beep that was bound to fill the room and call doctor after doctor to his aid—calling them away from those who needed it more. He couldn't do that. He did, however, manage to push himself up into a sitting position and carefully extricate one arm from where it was trapped at his side. For a brief moment, he held his hand in front of his face; he first examined the back, with its neatly-trimmed nails, and then twisted it to view the palm. Nothing out of the ordinary, although he didn't know why he had expected it to be so.

With a painful stretch, his hand found the small switch on the reading light situated on the cabinet to the side of his bed. A small spotlight appeared on the opposite wall, gradually moving towards him as he twisted the lamp's neck. Finally he got it to light the upper half of his body, allowing him to further examine his appearance. He had been clothed in a hospital gown at some point during his stay, and felt no need to lift the covers to look further; it was evident there was nothing more to see. Instead he began to look around for signs of his identity. A noticeboard hung above his cabinet and, with a quick adjustment of the desk light, it was now his to peruse.

He had been right; there were people who cared about him—quite a few, actually, if the number of cards were anything to go by. Several were pinned to the corkboard, depicting bandaged puppies and elaborate flower displays—the latter being a touch feminine for his tastes—and all were emblazoned with similar text: 'Get Well Soon!' It was if they thought he had a choice in the matter. He couldn't make out the messages scrawled inside from this distance and none were in arms reach. However, he imagined they had much the same sentiment as the exterior, leaving him largely nonplussed—although also a touch disappointed that they couldn't reveal his name. He was quickly learning not to get his hopes up; trapped in such a small room without even the capability to fully explore it, the boy had very few, if any, means to uncover what was going on.

Despite this, he found himself rifling through the one drawer the hospital had afforded him. A phone was the first thing he plucked out, a quick examination showing that it was an iPhone. Surprisingly, the teenager found that he knew what that was: a good sign. He pressed the circular button, ever optimistic, but as expected its battery had run dry. There was a crack running the length of the screen and its owner suspected that it was in some way related to how he had come to be here. He discarded it on the bed and turned his attention back to the rest of the drawer's contents, although there was nothing of interest: some tissues, a packet of Reece's Pieces—half eaten by someone other than himself—and a lady's watch. He wasn't entirely sure who that could have belonged to, it obviously not being his, but he speculated that the owner was probably the individual guilty of eating his candy. It seemed likely that his mother had come to visit, or perhaps a sister. A girlfriend was a possibility that he quite liked, and he even took the time to examine the cards a second time in search of one saying 'To My Boyfriend' or suchlike. No such luck.

It quickly became apparent that there were no further clues to be found, so the teenager decided to occupy his time by looking more closely at the phone. Perhaps there was enough power for him to see its contents, even for a second. The date would be nice; there was bound to be something he could work out from knowing the date. He just needed something, anything, to jog his memory. Casually, he felt around the bed in search of the small smartphone and, upon finding it, held it closely to his face.

For the first time he saw his true reflection and stared at it like a deer in headlights; then the girl staring back at him screamed.


	2. Chapter 2

"Miss Fabray, is everything alright?" a voice cut through the darkness. He had been shaking since seeing his image reflected in the glossy surface of the iPhone and that now increased tenfold. "Miss Fabray?" the voice repeated; a woman. A sigh. "I'll get the doctor." The teenager still didn't answer.

It didn't take long for the nurse, that's who he presumed she was, to find his doctor. Within minutes the man was perched on the end of his bed, by his feet, with a clipboard of various inane questions. "Miss Fabray?" he asked and the boy in the bed quivered. His voice turned quickly from caring to irritated. "Miss Fabray, things will go a hell of a lot faster if you co-operate."

Finally, after much deliberation, he opened his eyes. His casual examination of the doctor showed that he was an older gentleman—if he had to guess, he'd say in his sixties or so. He had a perfectly sculpted beard and glasses that seemed to frame most of his face; most of all, the young man noted that he looked stern. "Excellent," Doctor Stern said, although his facial expression betrayed his words, "Now, Miss Fabray-"

"Please stop calling me that." His voice came out as a cracked whisper, at least two octaves higher than he would have liked. The nurse, seemingly instinctively, poured a glass of water from the pitcher on his table and placed it gently in his shaking hand. He liked her. The doctor, however, looked nothing but shocked. It seemed to add to his opinion that his patient was an insolent child but the boy merely stared at him blankly and waited for a response.

"Very well," the doctor grumbled with a twitch of his eyebrows. He had to flick back to the first page of patient notes to find a first name, "Quinn." The boy let out a small sigh of relief at a name he deemed to be relatively gender-neutral. Much better. "Now, Quinn, I have some questions here to ask you. Is that all right? If you'd prefer to have your parents here, that can be arranged." Quinn nodded his assent; his parents being here was the very last thing he wanted—he didn't even know them. Doctor Stern wasted no time. "What is your full name?"

"Quinn Fabray," he answered tentatively. The water had fixed the frog-like quality of his voice but did nothing for its tone.

"And your middle name?" the questioner prompted.

"I-I don't know."

The man seemed surprised, noting his answer down on a long line beside the question. "You learned your name from us?" The blonde nodded. "Interesting." The rest of the quiz continued in much the same fashion: answer; surprise; pen-scratching. Quinn was quickly growing weary of the doctor and his attitude and the incessant questions were becoming too much. He just wanted to know what the hell was going on. After what seemed like, and may have been, hours, the doctor stood up to leave.

"Wait," Quinn called after his retreating form, again cringing at the pitch his voice reverberated at. Doctor Stern turned and raised a solitary eyebrow. "Wait. Aren't you going to tell me why I'm here?"

"Do I look like a messenger, Miss Fabray?" The teenager flinched both at the tone and the moniker. "Your parents will be here shortly; ask them." With that, the old man rushed out to the sound of beeping elsewhere.

The nurse smiled apologetically, "We're a bit rushed off our feet today, I'm sorry to say. He's not usually like that." Quinn got the distinct impression that he was. "Can I get you anything else?" He shook his head and the nurse followed the doctor's lead. Soon he was left alone with even more questions than he had started with.

This left him time to digest his thoughts, and try to declutter the various facts he had learned about himself. His name was Quinn Fabray; he was female, or so everyone treated him. His doctor was an asshole. He had also worked out that he seemed to have some kind of amnesia although he had no medical degree. That was something that made him wonder: was he a boy or a girl before his accident, whatever it may have been? It appeared that he had been a girl—long hair, a ladie's watch, no sign of any attempt to look masculine—but he wasn't so sure. These things didn't just happen, did they? No one just woke up, amnesia or not, and decided they were a boy...did they? Quinn didn't know any more. He considered briefly consulting his doctor about it, but soon laughed that off. The last thing he needed was to be locked up for being crazy. As soon as he got out of here, he'd work out what to do. He just had no idea when that would be, since Doctor Stern hadn't exactly been forthcoming with the answers. He didn't feel very much pain however, so he could only hope that hinted at a short stay.

Before he could delve too much further into his thoughts, a knock on his door drew him from them. "Come in," he shouted to his visitor, his voice again rough from lack of use. An older blonde entered and Quinn quickly deduced from the resemblance that she was his mother. "Mom?" he asked as she gained ground and the woman nodded, tears threatening to spill from her eyes. "What's going on?"

"Quinn, sweetie, well..." she laid her hand over his and he had to fight not to flinch. This woman was not a stranger, she was his mother; that was what he had to recite to himself. "There was a car accident. You were fighting with Rachel-"

"Rachel?" Was this the girlfriend he had been hopeful for?

"I don't know, some girl from your glee club. She's been waiting outside since it happened." At Quinn's confused looked, she elaborated, "It happened yesterday. You two were fighting, as girls do," Quinn flinched, but his mother assumed it came from imagining the event, "You stepped into the road while you looked over your shoulder at her." Tears no longer threatened to spill from the woman's eyes: she was unabashedly sobbing. "You looked over your shoulder and-" His mother's body was doubled over, racked with the pain of almost losing a child; Quinn wished he knew what to say. He took the hand over his and squeezed it gently.

"It's okay," he offered, "I get the picture."

The blonde smiled gratefully through her tears, and nodded, "That's my Quinn. Always putting others before herself." The teenager shrugged awkwardly, patting his mother's hand. His eyes roved up and down her body, trying to memorise it anew and remember all at the same time. He just wanted to remember. The first thing that caught his eye was a name tag on her lapel. 'Judy'. She must have come here from work, he guessed; he decided that from now on he would refer to her as Judy in his mind. Mom wasn't something he could call a stranger and, right now, everyone was a stranger.


End file.
